


Bootpolish

by milidot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: bootblack, meeting at age 14 in this one, one option for a bucky and steve first meeting, this is just a one-shot, thought I imagine they met earlier in life, you can read as stucky if you want but it's really not romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 06:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milidot/pseuds/milidot
Summary: “Watch yourself, punk,” the bootblack says, and as he speaks Steve sees he’s missing one of his front teeth. His voice is low and serious, but he offers a hint of a smile as he turns back to his work.Steve stares at him, intrigued. Who’s this kid, he wonders, and why have I never seen him before?





	Bootpolish

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is what comes of watching Captain America: the First Avenger at ten at night, I suppose. It's past one a.m. now -- whoops. However, I think I managed to write a one-shot! Which is an accomplishment in my book.  
> This is unedited, so pardon any mistakes. Enjoy!

His head hits the dirty alleyway floor with a dull thump which echoes around his skull, and he can feel a headache forming before he even manages to roll onto his side and stagger to his feet. The guy who’s beating him up holds his fists up to his temples, and squints, incredulous, at him as he stands. “What,” the guy pants, “you want another?” His knuckles are white with the effort of clenching his fists, and there are beads of sweat rolling down his cheek; pink scratches mar his cheek, where Steve has managed a lucky blow. The guy’s friends are doubtless waiting up the alley, watching from afar, and he is obviously desperate to show his strength. By beating up a kid half his size, Steve thinks with a scoff, and he offers a toothy grin, the taste of metal on his tongue.  
  
“Anytime,” Steve responds, and when the guy rolls his eyes, he takes the opportunity to dart forward and jab at the guy’s ribs. Steve may be small, and asthmatic, and get sick all the time – but hell, he’s fast, and he won’t let this jerk get away with the things he’d said to the old apple-seller without paying in at least a few bruises. No boy has the right to be cruel to hapless women like that, big and strong or no, and Steve’s never been one to back away from such unjust situations. Sure, taking on this guy who practically towers over him, and probably has a few more years under his belt as well (he looks to be at least fifteen) is a bad idea – but that’s never stopped him yet. His mother may despair at the injuries he comes home with, but he prefers them to the guilt of knowing he’s stood by and done nothing to stop a bully.  
  
Merely fourteen, and already he knows exactly what he’s fighting for.  
  
His attack is countered with relative ease, and Steve only manages to make the guy huff out a breath and mutter some dark words, before he’s hit with another cuff to the side of the head, and finds himself spinning to the ground again. He takes a moment to catch his breath, this time, and feels something drip from his nose, down into his mouth. The coppery flavor of blood intensifies, and he swipes a hand across his face as he turns, knowing he’s covering his sleeve in it, and already dreading what his mother’s response to this will be.  
  
The guy sneers, face twisted into some expression of contempt. “You ain’t worth my time,” he says, and he’s dropped his hands to his sides, apparently confident that this time Steve is going to stay down. Well. Steve isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He takes a moment to take stock of his aches and pains (bruised hip, throbbing head, foot twisted in a fall, multiple dull aches all over his torso and arms) before pushing himself up again, supported against the filthy graffiti-covered wall. The bully has a moment to take stock of the situation, and his eyes widen, but he doesn’t react until it’s too late, and Steve has already used the wall to push off of, to launch himself, elbows-first, into the guy’s soft belly.  
  
After that, the guy can do nothing but bend double and clutch his midriff and, probably, empty the contents of his stomach into the corner of the alley – but Steve doesn’t stick around to find out. He’s off in a hurry, pushing past the bully’s friends (who are too shocked to do much) and nodding hurriedly to the old woman whose honor he was protecting as he passes her stall. He hears an indignant shout behind him, and tries to speed up the pace, though breathing is beginning to get a little difficult, and he knows he’s going to regret this in a minute. Through another alley – around a sharp corner – even cutting in and out of shops and weaving through traffic. Steve knows this part of Brooklyn like the back of his hand.  
  
He’s confident enough in his navigation skills to run without looking where he’s going, craning his neck to glance back and make sure nobody’s following him: and that’s his mistake. One he instantly regrets when he finds his foot caught on something, and one he curses himself for on the way down. His hands, brought forward to protect his face, connect with the pavement first. He’s grateful for that, but at the same time, he can feel the sting of scraped arms already, and knows from experience that the wounds will be painful and slow to heal. But that’s not important: what’s more important is, who tripped him, and also, who’s he gonna have to fight? He knows he has enemies – people angry that such a small kid managed to beat them up (though those are rare; he almost always loses), people still mad that anyone dared stand up to them, or just people scornful of poor kids from his part of Brooklyn. Just think: twelve, and so many enemies. But Steve’s strong, and ready and willing to face them all. So it’s with hands already clenching into scraped fists that he flips onto his back and sits up, preparing himself for another battle.  
  
Instead, he sees a suited-up middle-aged man glaring at him, along with a scruffy kid looking to be around Steve’s age.  
  
“What you runnin’ from, kid?” the man asks, irritable. “Can’tcha watch where you’re goin’? This’un’s gonna have to clean my boot all over again, and I sure ain’t payin’ for that.” He pulls a shiny black boot out from under Steve, who’s trying to gather his wits about him, and the scruffy kid scowls.  
  
Steve pulls his legs in, up to his chest, and begins getting to his feet. The bootblack (for that is, apparently, what the kid is) has already picked up his black-stained cloth from where it apparently fell in the collision, and is reaching for the polish, but his eyes haven’t yet left Steve’s own. They’re dark, and though it’s broad daylight Steve can’t tell what color they are, but they’re fixing him with a stare that seems to pierce his very soul.  
  
Once on his feet, Steve tries to stammer an apology, but his chest is tight, and he finds himself having a hard time breathing. “S---sorr,” he puffs, “sorry,” and that’s all he can get out, and he’s fumbling in his pockets for his inhaler, because he’s sure he brought it with him today; and yes, there it is, but he’s feeling dizzy, and his hands are clumsy from lack of oxygen, eyes closing in frustration because why had he thought it was a good idea to run so fast, really, he’d made this mistake before–  
  
Then he hears a muffled “one sec,” and feels rough hands pulling at his own, and the inhaler’s held up to his lips by someone else’s hand and he inhales on pure instinct. It takes a bit, but eventually he finds he can breathe again, and takes the inhaler into his own hand. He opens his eyes again, and sees the messy-haired bootblack drawing away from him, and catches a glimpse of blue.  
  
“Watch yourself, punk,” the bootblack says, and as he speaks Steve sees he’s missing one of his front teeth. His voice is low and serious, but he offers a hint of a smile as he turns back to his work.  
  
Steve stares at him, intrigued. Who’s this kid, he wonders, and why have I never seen him before? His breathing’s evening out again, so he puts away the inhaler, and tries a smile of his own. “Er. Sorry, again, I didn’t mean to… well, um… you know. Um. Bye. Thank you.”  
  
Mystery kid nods in acknowledgement as he sets to shining suit-guy’s boot, probably for the second time. He has a cap with a few coins in it, set beside the bucket of polish, and Steve wishes he had something to put in it. Instead, he settles for another smile, which the kid probably doesn’t even see, and turns to walk off. He’d left home earlier that morning to buy some bread and cheese, and had stashed them in a corner before beginning his fight. Hopefully, they’d still be there. If not, he’d have to find some way to work for them, because there was no way he was going home to his mother empty-handed.  
  
Rarely enough, and near-brushes with death through lack of oxygen notwithstanding, it seems to be a lucky day for Steve: not only does he find his bread and cheese in the place he hid them, but the apple woman also offers him some fruit (contrary to name, she doesn’t only sell apples). He thanks her, and gladly accepts. Mostly for his mother’s sake, because he knows how she loves clementines. Food safely stowed in a bag and secured on his back, Steven begins the walk home.  
  
It’s not a long walk, but he’s tired, so he goes slow; and by the time he gets home, he’s feeling miserable, and he hurts all over. His mother sighs when she sees him, but she’s used to his fights by now, much as she dislikes his getting hurt, and she merely goes for the first aid kit without saying a word. He shrugs off the bag, and pulls out one of the apples, holding it out to her. “Got us some fruit, ma,” he says, proud.  
  
She smiles, even as she gets her nursing stuff ready to dab on his cuts and scrapes. “I appreciate it.” He sets the apple and the bag on the table and sits down by her. “Why, this time?” She asks, and Steve is ready for the question, as he always is: he launches into an explanation, beginning, of course, from the moment he left the house, to the bully’s unnecessary idiocy, to the escape and subsequent trip over the well-dressed man’s boot. He leaves out the violent bits, of course, even though his mother is a nurse, and used to such things. It’s different, when it’s him, he’s sure.  
  
Her hands are gentle as they soothe his injuries, and she has plenty of questions about the bootblack (because she knows every boy in the neighborhood, having met them vicariously through him, and this new face is almost as interesting to her as it is to him), and by the time they have dinner -- with an only slightly-bruised pear, split between the two of them, for dessert -- Steve’s determined to figure out this new kid. Regardless of determination, though, he goes to bed early, tired after the day’s exertions, and sleeps poorly, waking up every half hour and staring at nothing for a while.  
  
But even such a restless night doesn’t completely ruin his mood, and Steve gets out of bed at sunup the next morning, certain that one way or another he’s going to find and talk to that kid – at the very least, he’d like to know his name, so he can stop calling him “mystery kid”.  
  
He leaves home shortly after his mother leaves for work. It’s a bright Thursday, with barely a cloud in the sky, and the sun beats down hot on the pavement even at nine in the a.m., so Steve doesn’t want to know what it’ll be like in the afternoon. He heads out towards the place the kid had been polishing boots at the day before, but reaches it to find empty pavement in front of a bookshop, and only a few splatters of what might be polish on the ground. Well. It had been a slim chance, anyway. He’d return later, but for now…. Steve crosses the street and enters a nearby jewelry shop, ignoring the “closed” sign, since he can see the shopkeep inside, and he’s known him since he was nine and the man offered him a small salary in return for sorting beads.  
  
“Excuse me, Mister Jennings, but do you know the bootblack across the way?”  
  
The shopkeep glances at him from where he’s crouching, arranging necklaces on a stand. Down on his knees like this, he’s about eye level with Steve. “Oh, hello. What, you mean that brown-haired chap?”  
  
“I—I reckon so,” Steve stammers. He hadn’t really noticed the hair color, he’d been so caught up in how messy it was, and in those dark eyes.  
  
Mister Jennings purses his lips, considering. “Well – he seems to be around often enough,” he says. “Good business around here, probably.” He places a turquoise-stoned necklace beside a blue one, and gets to his feet, apparently done. His eyes dart to the main window, and back to Steve, and he walks over to the cash register. “Anyway. I got to open up now. Dunno ‘bout that bootblack, but he oughta be back around here, eventually.”  
  
Steve says a quick thanks and an even quicker goodbye, and leaves, feeling a little downtrodden, but mostly hopeful. At least he has a likely location. His spirits pick up even more when he thinks, it’s just like one of those spy stories!, and in fact he’s feeling so cheerful about being a good old-fashioned detective, that he wanders about almost in a dream, and doesn’t look where he’s going until he walks right into someone.  
  
“Watch where you’re—” a voice begins, and Steve glances up, startled, as he stumbles back, because that voice is familiar, he heard it just yesterday, and, yes, it’s the bootblack! Whose eyes are widening, probably in recognition, nay, definitely in recognition, because he cuts himself off to echo Steve’s thoughts and say, “wait a minute, you’re that kid from yesterday!”  
  
Steve finds his mouth has dropped open and he’s a little too shocked by the sudden appearance of this kid, and foiling of his detective-y dreams, to say anything.  
  
This, of course, leaves the other kid (who, yes, as it turns out, has brown hair) free to say something more. “I hope you’re alright? I mean, hope you got home okay. You seemed pretty beat up.”  
  
There’s another moment’s silence, and Steve finally manages to pull himself together, eyes darting to the ground. “Er—yes, I… well, yes. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.” The kid is wearing shoes that look even more torn up than Steve’s, which are second- or even third-hand, and well worn. Certainly, these ragged old things are a stark contrast to the shiny boots he’d been polishing the day before.  
  
“Oh, sure,” the kid says, and though Steve isn’t looking at him he can hear the smile in his voice. “Well, you definitely didn’t learn nothin’ from yesterday, at least not about looking where you’re off to. Your head was way off in the clouds, just now.”  
  
Steve feels his face grow hot. “I—I was just—”  
  
“No, no, it’s fine.”  
  
“Still, um, sorry.”  
  
Steve chews on his bottom lip, cussing himself out in his head. Why is it that he finds it so easy to speak out whenever some unfairness is going on, but now in a harmless situation he’s tongue-tied? Stupid, stammery, AND slow, he thinks to himself. This kid’s gonna think you’re an idiot.  
  
With a force of will, he pulls himself together.  
  
“Well, my name’s Steve,” he offers. He still can't bring himself to move his eyes from the boy's shoes. That, actually, is why he almost misses the outstretched hand. He notices it after just enough time that the delay is awkward, and can feel himself blushing all the way down to his collarbones as he takes the hand and shakes it.  
  
“Bucky,” the kid says. “Well—James, but my friends call me Bucky, so.” Steve is startled enough at that boldness to overcome his embarrassment and look up at the kid – at Bucky’s – face, and sees a crooked, contagious, grin.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” he says, pulling out all the politeness he knows. It’s just a gut feeling, and possibly an unreliable one, but somehow, in his heart, he knows this is going to be the friendship of a lifetime. May as well start it right.  
  
Bucky’s grin only widens. “Likewise.”


End file.
